The Mandalorian Uprising
by scottishace
Summary: It's 110 ABY. Luke Skywalker is dead, and a new threat looms in the shadows. Can a lone Jedi Knight find the nature of the threat before he is consumed by his own darkness? Can his incredible power be controlled in a mind that's addicted to leadership?
1. Chapter 1

Mandalorian Uprising

Chapter 1

Aggressive Relaxation

110 ABY

1000 hours

Jedi Temple

Ossus

Roan Zukassa sat alone in a dark meditation room, deep in the bowels of the Jedi Temple. He floated in mid-air a good metre above the meditation pad under him. His eyes were closed, the lids twitching. His blond hair fell down over his eyes, tickling his forehead. He wore dark robes, almost black, and his long cloak was sitting on the floor. His lightsaber, a long silver and gold design with a black handle, was hanging from his belt, nestling in the folds of his right leg where it bent at the knee.

He was deeply rooted in the Force. He was unaware of everything in the physical world. He, like so many other Jedi, was searching in the deepest, most unexplored areas in the infinite vista of the Force. His perceptions, like a hand fumbling, searched and searched through the metaphorical clouds that blocked his Force perception like a veil over eyes…

He'd been searching for the last couple of hours, searching to make contact with one man.

Luke Skywalker.

Luke Skywalker, former Grand Master of the Jedi Order, had died six years ago. His body had disappeared, meaning that he could still contact the living if he needed to.

There'd been no such contact, despite the dire state the Jedi Order and Galactic Alliance were in.

The Galactic Alliance had fallen prey to the same disease that spread and crippled the Old Republic. The disease of greed, the gangrene that spread through a government, corrupting it.

And the Jedi Order… The Order was experiencing severe problems. Many Jedi were dying, at the fastest rate since the Yuuzhan Vong War. Over the last five years, the number of Jedi had fallen from four thousand to two and a half thousand. Jedi had fallen prey to everything from mercenaries to dark Jedi. And the Force itself was darkening; Jedi were finding it ever more difficult to tap into the Force and use its advantages. It was like a shadow had fallen on the Force, similar to the one described by Jedi who survived the Clone Wars and escaped Emperor Palpatine's clone troopers when Palpatine had steadily taken control of the Republic.

Five hours later, Roan floated to the floor, sighing. He'd made no contact with Master Skywalker, not even a fleeting word. He stood up, stretching and cracking his knuckles. He reached into the Force, feeling through the corridors of the pyramid shaped Jedi Temple, feeling the Jedi that walked its great halls.

Roan pulled on his cloak and left the room. His lightsaber clunked against his thigh as he walked out into the cream coloured corridor that headed in the direction of the sparring arenas. He walked quietly down the corridor, passing doors that lead into other meditation rooms. Roan drew his Force presence in around himself; he didn't want to disturb the other meditating Jedi.

Roan hurried on towards the sparring arena, passing a few Jedi on the way. The young Jedi Knight was tired and irritated about not making contact with Skywalker, even though he didn't expect to find success anyway, so he decided to go and spar to let the frustration out.

Roan walked through the curving doorway that lead into one of the main sparring arenas. The room was vast and round, flat-floored and light. Surprisingly for the time of the day, it was empty except for one Jedi Master whirling around with his emerald sabre, practicing the acrobatic Ataru lightsaber form, sometimes known as Form Four. Ataru was fast, energetic, and aggressive. It was favoured by Jedi of the Old Republic, and it gave the user superhuman agility and speed. Roan himself had practiced Ataru, but preferred his even more offensive Djem So/Shien, which centred on using a powerful defence and strong but fast attacks. Roan stepped into the arena, noting the tall observer's box, maybe fifty feet above the ring, used by masters who were observing their students train.

The Jedi Master backflipped for a final time, and switched off his emerald lightsaber. The green blade hissed and then slid back into the metal handle. The Master turned around to face Roan.

"Are you looking for a sparring partner?" The Master asked politely, inclining his head in a short bow. The man was quite short, which was perhaps why he used Ataru, to further his reach. His face was lined and etched with care, but he held himself proud and upright. His hair was grey, flecked with brown and black.

"Uh," Roan took another good look at the Master. He judged him to be about eighty, which meant he was probably quite experienced, a perfect match for Roan's youthful energy. "Yes."

The Master gestured grandly, smiling and igniting his lightsaber with a _snap-hiss. _"Then join me. Most of you young Jedi dismiss me as a has-been," The Master barked a harsh laugh. "And I give them a little fright when I knock their sabre from their hands!"

Roan smiled politely, and stepped forward, pulling his lightsaber from his belt and shrugging off his cloak.

_Snap-hiss!_

Roan's sapphire sabre spat to life, extending a full metre from its handle. It thrummed gently as he pulled it back over his head in Djem So attack stance. The blade reeked ozone, and Roan breathed the odour in happily. The sabre, held high above his head and angling back, seemed to shake with excitement. Roan reached into the Force, letting it guide his movements and…

The Master moved first, springing forward and covering the five metre gap between Roan and himself in less than half a second. He held his blade one-handed, and brought it sweeping up towards Roan's exposed right leg. Roan grunted and twisted to the side, extending his left leg. The Master took Roan's kick hard to the chin, and was knocked backwards. His sabre sputtered, but its green fire remained. Roan stabbed forward, bringing his blade down towards the Master's face. But the older Jedi wasn't beaten so quickly; he twisted to the right, bringing his leg up to knock Roan backwards.

The Master panted and smiled as he leapt to his feet, and it occurred to Roan that he didn't know the Master's name.

"I don't even know your name," gasped Roan, his chest heaving; the Master's kick had winded him.

"Wedge. Wedge Mundi," The master swirled his blade and brought it up into a high guard as he spoke. "And you're the young Roan Zukassa. Your reputation rivals that of Ben Skywalker. Unfortunately," the master frowned a little, creasing his already wrinkled brow. "Some of your fame is for the wrong reasons."

Roan grinned lopsidedly, although the words frustrated him. "I get things done. I'll certainly never become a Jedi Master the way I am, but I've come to terms with that," Roan let his blade shut down.

Wedge raised an eyebrow. "In these dark times, your emotions are dangerous. Particularly with that Sith Lord running around."

"He's not a Sith Lord. He's just some Dark Jedi," Roan tapped his chest. "I should know. I'm the only one who's ever duelled him. He's good, a lot better than me, but he's no Sith Lord."

"You think you couldn't defeat a Dark Lord?" Wedge asked politely, circling until he was behind Roan, and the stopped. The only sound for a few seconds was the excited hum of Wedge's lightsaber.

"Yes. At least, not one of the calibre of Jacen Solo," Roan didn't turn around.

"Do you ever consider the possibility that it _was_ Jacen Solo you encountered?"

"No. It's impossible. He died on Sluis Van, fighting with his mother," Roan frowned. The Dark Jedi had been incredibly powerful, but still, the possibility of him being a Sith Lord was doubtful.

"Yet Leia Organa Solo died from a lightsaber thrust to the chest; how could she still manage to kill her son if she was so gravely wounded. Jacen Solo's body was never recovered, just an arm and a hand."

"Leia Organa Solo took her son into death. His body, with exception of his severed limbs, would've exploded because the dark side powers built up inside him. It happens to all powerful Sith Lords; Emperor Palpatine being the prime example."

"Can you be so sure? With the death of Lumiya, and the death of Jacen Solo, who would've passed on the Ancient Sith teachings to other Sith?"

Roan grinded his teeth angrily. "There are no other Sith Lords. Just Dark Jedi!"

"You're entitled to your opinion. Now, let us continue this sparring match," Roan said nothing; Wedge had steered away from the subject for a reason, and Roan wanted to know why.

Wedge charged, lightsaber ignited. Roan stood, immobile, until the last second. He then flipped backwards, Force-pushing Wedge. The Jedi Master stumbled, arms wind-milling, but he managed to resist the push.

Landing fifteen metres away from Wedge, Roan landed with a decisive thump. He then thumbed his lightsaber's activation plate, but let the now-humming lightsaber hang loosely in his right hand as Wedge advanced slowly.

Roan briefly considered the match. The initial exchange between the two Jedi had only been seconds long, and their blades hadn't even met. The confrontation had been carried out with dodges and kicks. The second exchange had consisted of a mere Force-push, so Roan couldn't make an accurate guess on who was the better sword-master, and therefore he couldn't adapt his strategy.

So he chose aggression.

He walked slowly forward, blade still hanging at his side. Then, with decisive ferocity, he sprinted towards Wedge, slashing down with his lightsaber.

Wedge caught the blow with his own lightsaber, and was pushed back by the violent blow. Roan advanced, swinging his blade in wide, fast, and powerful arcs, trying to batter down Wedge's defence. The older master gave ground, retreating hastily and gracefully, blocking blows and dodging those that came in too fast and too powerful to be blocked.

Wedge had already found his only advantage negated. He had a natural aggression, and when coupled with his Ataru acrobatics it made his a deadly fighter. But, Roan's aggression surpassed anything that Wedge could summon, so he gave ground, retreating, as standing his ground and trying to get an attack in on Roan would result in Wedge's defeat.

Wedge was no great defensive warrior, but he was forced to use every ounce of his energy on maintaining the blazing shield of lightsaber blocks that he formed in front of himself. He had no energy, no power, and no time to spend attacking. He soon tired, his blocks coming slower and less accurately. Roan pressed the advantage, forcing Wedge back further and further, until the Jedi Master made a mistake, allowing Roan to effortlessly lock blades.

Roan leaned forward. The two blades, locked together, sent emerald and sapphire sparks sputtering into the air. The energy blades were stuck together in a cross, inches away from each Jedi's throats as they pushed forward into each other, trying to gain the advantage through brute strength.

Roan was taller, far more muscular, built thicker, and was less fatigued than Wedge. The Jedi Master soon found his own blade creeping gently towards his throat, sizzling the hair on his neck. The smell of ozone was choking. He knew that if Roan advanced his blade another centimetre, Wedge would have to accept his loss in the duel.

Summoning his last piece of energy, Wedge pushed with the Force. Roan grunted and ground his teeth, face twitching and jaw working as he tried to stand his ground. He was forced back perhaps two feet, but no further.

Roan realised that the sabre lock, with the added pressure of Wedge's Force-push, would simply result in an endless stalemate. So, working his arm muscles, Roan brought his sabre around in a twisting circle, dragging Wedge's lightsaber with it.

Wedge's wrist bent as he tried to hold on, and his fingers sprang free. His blade sputtered off and the deactivated handgrip flipped away, tumbling on the ground with a metallic clatter. He retreated, extending a hand, but before he could summon his lightsaber back to his hand a Force-push hit him in the chest and jerked him off his feet, throwing him backwards to crash into the Sparring Arena's durasteel wall, and he slumped to the ground.

Roan summoned Wedge's lightsaber to himself, grabbing the sword with his left hand and igniting the blade. Green light once again mingled with blue as Roan brought his weapons up in a guard.

"Defeated?" asked Roan, smiling.

"Not quite," Wedge groaned, rubbing his pained back. He closed his eyes and gestured with his hand, as if pulling a drawer out.

There was a horribly metallic screeching sound, and Roan whirled around a second too late. The durasteel panel that Wedge had ripped off the wall hit Roan in the back, knocking the Jedi to the ground with an audible crack. Roan's nose burst and broke, sending crimson blood spraying from his nostrils. He released both lightsabers, and they rolled away.

The injury sent waves of agony rippling through Roan's back as he leapt to his feet. His eyes water, but he charged towards Wedge anyway, as the older Jedi got to his feet.

The Jedi Master extended his hands, and both lightsabers shot like bullets towards his outstretched palms. Roan realised that if Wedge got those blades, his Ataru attacks would prevent Roan from ever recovering the advantage.

Roan grunted and pushed with the Force. The lightsabers accelerated further, whistling through the air. Roan subtly changed their course at the last second, ensuring that the deactivated hilts smashed painfully into Wedge's gut instead of smacking into his hands.

The Jedi Master coughed and hacked, doubling over and seizing his belly as the lightsabers dropped to the ground. Roan continued to run, leaping in mid-air and extending a foot.

Wedge took the flying kick straight to the face, and he was knocked backwards, landing on his back. Roan extended a hand and summoned both lightsabers, catching them easily and pointing them both at Wedge's throat.

"Beaten?" Roan asked again, feeling the metallic taste of blood as it trickled slowly into his mouth.

Wedge smiled weakly. "Definitely."

Roan nodded and smiled, switching off his own sabre and hooking it back onto his belt. He extended his free hand to Wedge, who took it firmly as Roan helped him to his feet. He then offered Wedge's lightsaber, deactivated and hilt-first, back to its owner. Wedge took it with a muttered thanks.

"No problem," Roan became aware of the fact that he was perspiring heavily. The salty sweat trickled into his mouth, mingling horribly with the blood. He wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his robe, and rubbed his sweaty palms on his utility belt.

"That was…" Wedge paused to suck more air into his winded lungs. "Entertaining."

"Not for me!" Roan laughed a little. "You're alright; I just hurt your back. You broke my nose!"

"I'm an old man. I forget these things; the Force doesn't hold off senility."

Chuckling slightly, the two Jedi shook hands and separated. Wedge left for the showers, but Roan waited for a new sparring partner, hoping his broken and bloodied nose didn't put anyone off.


	2. The Engagement that Changed the Galaxy

Chapter 2

The Engagement that Changed the Galaxy

Roan's comlink buzzed on his belt. Frowning, he picked it up and keyed the response.

"Zukassa here," he said.

"Jedi Zukassa, this is Corran Horn. The Jedi Council request your presence in the Council Chamber immediately. Bring your lightsaber."

The twelve XM3 X-wings swooped across the velvety darkness of space, their four ion engines leaving a trail of blue efflux behind them. The white stars glinted feebly, thousands of light-years away. The squadron of fighters were flying a standard patrol of an _Alliance _class frigate, which was stationed just a light year away from a small pirate base situated on a deserted, atmosphere-less moon that orbited the dead, dry, dusty, copper-coloured planet of Korriban. The _Alliance-_class frigate's name was _Rieekan, _named for the famous Rebel Alliance general who'd been instrumental in the evacuation of Hoth. The frigate itself was quite long for a picket ship; eight hundred metres, the usual size of small-scale destroyers and Interdictor cruisers. But the frigate itself was narrow and its forward area was sharpened like a spear; the bridge, a line of dark windows, occupied the very tip of the spear. The ship was slowly advancing towards its final ambush position, its smooth, silver hull glinting in the dim starlight, the oddly unsettling affect of the smooth, unblemished hull occasionally broken by the forty turbolaser cannons that stuck out of the frigate like thorns. The frigate was very heavily armoured; the aforementioned forty light turbolaser cannons, as well as sixty point-defence laser cannons, and two proton torpedo tubes made it a formidable enemy. But the ship was poorly armoured; a direct hit from a turbolaser cannon would punch through the armour, and a strafing run from an X-wing squadron could probably knock out the engines. The shielding for the frigate was also weak; it was for those reasons, primarily the shield weakness, that the ship was consigned to anti-pirate duty, which generally involved hunting fighters, corvettes, and freighters, instead of operating as part of a Galactic Alliance fleet.

The frigate's fighter complement, the squadron of X-wings, swooped back into the hangar bay mounted on the bottom of the frigate, just as the ship entered its final preparation waypoint. All that was left was for the captain to give the order, and, in a few minutes, the ship's weak hyperdrive would propel the heavily armed frigate into Korriban's orbit.

The captain of the _Rieekan _stood, his hands clasped behind his back, staring into the motionless void visible through the bridge's viewports. The ship's large bridge was operated by perhaps forty crewmen, all of whom were silent as they bustled around, punching in commands and altering power to systems. The bridge was a large, blank, circular expanse of grey durasteel, the edges rimmed by the control consoles necessary to control the medium sized ship. In the centre of the circle, there was a raised platform that had been constructed to allow the captain of the ship to observe his crew working. At the back of the bridge, the Tactical Salon was activating itself as essential crewmen took their seats at the consoles, ready to bring the ship into battle.

The captain of the ship was completely motionless, his grey uniform un-creased, but the knuckles of his clasped hands were a deathly white. Intelligence on the pirate's base was limited; only that it was on the bright side of Korriban's moon, and that it was guarded by two squadrons of stolen E-wings and four old Corellian Corvettes. Apparently, the pirates had been smuggling a huge quantity of spice into Kuat, Commenor, and Corellia, and had to be stopped.

The ship's captain, whose rank was Lieutenant-Commander, was a short, but extremely skinny man, with drawn, hollow cheeks that almost made him look like Tarkin, the sick, sadistic Imperial Grand Moff who'd commanded the first Death Star. But the Lieutenant-Commander, whose name was Caelius Jerjerrod, was a much younger man, barely twenty six, had black hair instead of greying-brown, a long nose instead of a short severe one, and wide blue eyes, instead of narrow, suspicious grey ones. The Lieutenant-Commander was well liked by his crew, but not popular. He'd demoted a few too many people because of minor mistakes, and was known to cancel leave at times. But he had a brilliant tactical mind, and many expected him to go far in the Galactic Alliance Navy.

Jerjerrod's aide, a tall female Bith with skinny, long limbs, and a massive, bulbous, orange head with two large, expressionless black orbs for eyes, strode over to him.

"Sir?" she said, her voice sounding oddly distorted, as if it was being shouted through water; a result of the Bith's three mouths speaking at once, "We're in position. Waiting to make the jump."

Jerjerrod turned his face expressionless, and nodded. "Power up the shields," _For all the good they'll do! _"Activate all weapon stations, and send everyone to battle stations. Make the jump in twenty seconds."

The aide nodded and shuffled off. Jerjerrod's expression stayed the same, and he turned to stare into the black vista of space, waiting for the jump to hyperspace as the crew moved to their battle stations.

The ship shuddered faintly, and the rumble of the ship's engines, which had been as quiet as the wind a few seconds earlier, rose to a deep thrumming that was completely audible. Then the tiny pinpricks of white light that were stars visible through the viewports suddenly stretched into brilliantly blazing lines of silver, until the lines were swallowed by a pulsing, spinning blue vortex that looked like thousands of broken sapphire gems were being spun around the ship.

The beautiful and mysterious vortex of hyperspace, an occurrence no one truly understood.

Jerjerrod smiled slightly, and took a deep breath, the slightly metallic, scrubbed and recycled air used by the ship filling his tired nostrils…

Then the ship dropped out of hyperspace, the engines squealing.

"Are we in position?" asked Jerjerrod, although he didn't need to; he could see the coppery ball of Korriban dead ahead, and could even make out the dark shadows cast by hundreds of sulphuric clouds that filled the atmosphere. Off to the frigate's starboard, loomed the grey moon's rocky, pockmarked surface. Four E-wings, heavy fighters used eighty years ago in the Yuuzhan Vong War, were just starting to turn and target the frigate; pirates never negotiated. If they saw something that threatened them, they attacked, like animals.

"Yes sir we've arrived at our rally point," confirmed the Bith aide.

Jerjerrod nodded, and his voice suddenly became a loud, commanding boom, "All batteries open fire! Launch all fighters. Tell Flight One and Two to engage any enemy fighters. Order Flight Three to engage the corvettes; attack from behind and target the engines, and the enemy turrets won't be able to hit you. Flight Four, attack any escaping shuttles, freighters, or fighters. Try to neutralise the escaping vehicles instead of destroying them"

As soon as his orders were relayed, there was a blinding flash of blue and red as the point-defence laser cannons opened fire. Massive streams, sheets, and fans of lasers shot out towards the wildly evading E-wings. The flight lead took a direct hit, the bolt smashing through the shields and armour of the vessel, turning the hull into a rainbow-coloured cloud of superheated gasses and turning the pilot's body into a bloody steam. Another E-wing lost its starboard wing and went careening wildly forward, rolling and flipping over and over as its pilot struggled futilely to regain control.

The E-wing hit the frigate and exploded in a massive fireball that was instantly choked by space's oxygen-less expanse. But the fighter must've been packing concussion missiles or proton torpedoes, because when the fighter and all of its ordnance had impacted and exploded, the frigate had bucked wildly, shields had failed for a few seconds, and the armour over the impact had been peeled viciously off, exposing a deck to the vacuum of space. Bodies that had been burned by the explosion and then frozen instantly by the decompression tumbled slowly and eerily into space, vaporising as they hit the reactivated shields.

"Seal that deck," barked Jerjerrod, "Sensor crew! Locate the pirate base. Tractor beam commander; try to stop anything from getting out of Korriban's gravitational pull."

A chorus of affirmatives filled the bridge as the twelve X-wings soared from the hangar, entering battle configuration and splitting into four groups of three.

The lead X-wing of Flight Two opened fire with all four laser cannons, heavily damaging the rear shield of one E-wing. The E-wing pulled up suddenly, trying to perform a half-loop and corkscrew behind its attacker. But the wingman of the attacking X-wing finished the kill for his ally, firing off three salvos to blow the E-wing in half. The other patrolling E-wing took a vicious hit to the engine from a point-defence laser blast, and was sent spiralling towards the foreboding, ominous surface of the moon, its engine useless.

"Sir," shouted a sensor officer. Jerjerrod nodded and strode briskly towards the man.

"Report."

"We've located the main base. It's seven hundred klicks towards the moon's far side."

"Good," Jerjerrod turned calmly towards the main gunnery officer, "Lock on to the main base. Command all turbolasers to open fire, but try not to blow the base up."

"Roger," replied the gunnery officer, who was a Mon Calamarian.

"Anything else?" asked Jerjerrod, speaking again to the sensor officer.

"Yes sir. Eight more E-wings are inbound from the base, along with one CR90 Corellian Corvette. Another Corvette along with four E-wings is trying to escape. The other two Corvettes and eight E-wings are still in the enemy's main base."

"Roger that. Detail Flight Two to go after the escaping vessels, along with Flight Three. Tell Flight Four to hit the enemy hangar with proton torpedoes."

"Roger sir."

Jerjerrod returned to his raised platform, and stared past the bright, multicoloured blasts of the battle, past the green lances of turbolaser fire, and listened beyond the boom of turrets firing. He could hear… No, he couldn't hear, but he thought he could hear a whispering. As if someone was talking. It was unnerving. Jerjerrod shivered, feeling his body tense up. He stared towards Korriban, and felt his fear grow stronger… Wasn't the planet the Sith home world? The home of the most evil Force-users ever to live? The kind of monsters that created Palpatine, Darth Vader and Jacen Solo? Jerjerrod brought his right hand up and mopped his cold, sweaty brow, and noticed that he wasn't the only crew member sweating and looking nervous. The nerves obviously weren't connected to the battle; the frigate and the X-wings were more than enough to smash the pirates, and there'd only been four confirmed crew casualties, caused by the earlier crash and hull breach. So why was he feeling so nervous?

"Sir!"

It was the sensor officer again. Jerjerrod stood still for a minute, gulping as he composed himself; it wouldn't do for an officer to appear so flustered during such a minor engagement.

"Yes?"

"We've got six fighters approaching."

There was something in the sensor officer's tone that made Jerjerrod freeze. "Where from?"

"The planet. We can't be sure, but the fighter profile more or less matches those used by the Sith Brotherhood a thousand years ago."

Jerjerrod felt fear grab his heart in a crushing, steely grip. The Sith Brotherhood! The order of Sith that had almost crushed the Galactic Republic… The one that could wipe all life off a single planet!

Jerjerrod had heard stories of Sith using the Force to influence battles; the name of the ability was Battle Meditation. Using the Force to disillusion and confuse their opponents, will coordinating their own forces perfectly.

Jerjerrod felt a knot form in his stomach. He knew he may only have been seconds away from his death…

"Retreat!" he roared suddenly, his eyes bulging and wild. His officers turned to stare, incredulous, up at him.

"Retreat!" he shouted again. "Now! Jump to hyperspace! Get out of here. Go anywhere!"

The crew were silent, until one man said, "What about the fighters?"

"It's too late to recover our X-wings. Tell them to jump out of the system if they can, but, if they can't, they're on their own."

The crew sat for another few seconds, stunned, and then grudgingly started to follow their orders…


	3. Darkness on Corulag

Chapter Three

Darkness on Corulag

Roan hurried on, striding briskly out of the sparring arena, using the Force to stem the flow of blood from his nose and neutralise the pain. Nevertheless, he still got a few disparaging looks from the sparring arena Master, who, ironically enough, hated seeing his sparring chambers in a mess.

Roan just prayed to the Force that he would be off on some distant planet with a mission when the sparring arena Master noticed that a durasteel plate had been ripped off a wall.

The young Jedi Knight continued to speedily walk towards the central turbolifts that would take him up to the Council Chamber. A couple of Twi'lek Padawans passed, giggling and casting gleeful glances at the smear of blood across Roan's passive face.

A few minutes later, Roan stepped into the Council Chamber. The room was a plain, unassuming room, with a thin cream-coloured carpet and walls. The eight Council Masters sat on meditation couches, their legs crossed and their eyes closed, their faces half-secluded in the shadow of the soft lighting.

"Roan," said Ben Skywalker, Luke Skywalker's famous son and leader of the Jedi Order. Ben opened his bright green eyes; eyes he'd inherited from his equally famous mother. He had a cheery grin on his face, and his red hair was tousled, as if he'd just been outside in a vicious storm. It was hard to believe that the cheery man, who looked so youthful as to be thirty but was in fact, over eighty years old, had been an assassin at the age of fourteen.

Next to him, sat Allana Solo, Jacen Solo's daughter. Allana was almost seventy five herself, and looked perhaps fifty, with longish, greying brown hair and intense brown eyes. Her narrow, lined face which showed wisdom and a dedication to duty. Her famous dedication to the job at hand showed her impatience to begin the meeting with Roan, but many of the Masters were still deep in meditation.

Corran Horn, the oldest master on the Council, at almost a hundred and thirty five, sat in the far left corner of the room. His eyelids flickered, and the short man's bald head appeared to be sweating slightly. Roan wondered what was bothering the Master for a few seconds before his own frustration blew the curiosity away; he'd been called to the chamber for a mission, no doubt, so why keep him waiting?

"I sense your frustration, Roan," Master Skywalker said, smiling knowingly. Roan was unsurprised; even if he'd tried to hide his emotions, no doubt Ben Skywalker, who wielded almost as much power as his father had, would've discovered them anyway, "But meditation is the best way to understanding of the Force."

"Yeah, but I prefer training with a drone," growled Roan, noticing that Allana eyed him warningly, "Now, if you don't mind, can we move along; you can further your understanding when there's not something important at stake," His last statement was purely conjecture; he didn't know, only assumed, that he was in the Chamber to be assigned to a mission.

Allana glowered, and started to speak, "There is much more to the Force than combat skills. It is the role of the Jedi to understand and defend, not to attack."

"What's the use in furthering our knowledge if we don't use our knowledge for the greater good?" retorted Roan.

"The Force is the greater good."

Roan, becoming more annoyed by the second, tried his luck again, "I somehow doubt the Twi'lek dancers, who are raped daily by their masters, or the Barabels that were hunted by the Galactic Empire as sport, would agree with that view."

"Enough," Ben spoke once, but his commanding voice brought the two arguing philosophers' argument to a halt. Before speaking, Skywalker had only observed the events with a wry smile, but he saw fit to step in as the argument worsened.

Roan turned his attention to the master sitting to Ben's other side. Saba Sebatyne, a Barabel Jedi Master who'd fought in the Yuuzhan Vong War, had bristled noticeably at the mention of her species. Her many brown scales across her body had curled noticeably, and her long, ridge-like brow had lowered over her yellow, predatorial eyes at the mention of her species' peril.

"Sorry, Master Sebatyne," Roan said, bowing in respect.

The Barabel sissed with laughter, banging her long and thick tail against the ground for emphasis, "Thiz one doez not underztand Roan'z apology; humanz are so very strange!" The Barabel again sissed with laughter. Roan decided not to wonder what was so funny; Barabel humour was incomprehensible to humans.

A loud Wookie roar of laughter came from Sebatyne's side. There the mighty Jedi Master Lowbacca sat, on a specially designed and reinforced meditation stool. Lowbacca was a tall, muscular Wookie, with golden-bronze curly fur, and eyes that were the same vivid shade of blue as his uncle, Chewbacca's, had been.

"I really thought I was going to totally submerge in the Force for a change," said Padmé Fel. The daughter of Jagged Fel and Jaina Solo was a woman of about sixty, with greying brown hair, relaxed and friendly grey eyes, and the tanned complexion of her father, "But this walking carpet keeps waking me up."

Lowbacca chuckled happily, serenely at the joke, but Roan was starting to feel rage; and it wouldn't do to become angry in front of the Council.

"Could we please hurry up?" asked Roan, his voice an almost emotionless, forced tone of politeness.

"In the Force, there is always time," whispered a serene voice. The voice of Tahiri Solo. Tahiri had been named for her mother, the young Jedi who'd almost been shaped into a Yuuzhan Vong during the war. She'd been conceived by a miracle of the Force; Anakin Solo's spirit had briefly returned to the living world, and had conceived the younger Tahiri simply by telling the older Tahiri how much he loved her; the Force had then created a child, who had many of both Anakin and the older Tahiri's traits.

"Yeah, funny how the chronos keep ticking though," snapped Roan. Tahiri merely shrugged and didn't respond.

"Roan," Skywalker said, his voice warning the younger Jedi to back off.

Again, Roan's respect for Skywalker quelled his bubbling anger, "Yes, sorry Master."

"Zukassa," Allana started to speak, obviously content that the Council Members had all finished their meditation, "A Padawan on a solo mission to Corulag has gone missing."

_No chit-chat today, then. _"Who?" Roan asked, slightly worried for the young Jedi.

"Lomi Nabierre. She's nineteen, from Naboo. We sent her out to look for a spice smuggler called Leo Derson. We believe he's got connections to the Trandoshan Grand Militia."

"And?"

Ben Skywalker leaned forward, clasping his hands together. His brow furrowed slightly, "She failed to report in two days ago. We've tried many times to contact her; but to no avail. Her Master, however, reached out to her, and he reports that she's still alive. She's terrified of something, and in a lot of pain. As soon as he reached out to make contact with her, she drew her presence in on herself."

"Why?" Roan asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"We don't know."

"Why isn't her Master going to help her; assuming she needs any help?"

"Because her master was shot on a Commenor skyscraper just minutes after he sent us the transmission informing us of his findings. We believe the shot didn't kill him, but it knocked him off a five hundred floor high building."

"Oh," Roan bowed his head, praying that the dead man may find peace in the Force. But he was more concerned about how he would break the news to his Padawan. How would she take it? Would she still be alive to care?

"When… When do I leave?" asked Roan, washing away his doubts and hesitations by reaching into the crystal clear, pure, ocean of calmness that inevitably surrounded a building filled with more than a thousand light sided Force users.

"In three hours. You'll be taking a _Lambda-V _class Shuttle into the Five Brothers Corulag Spaceport. Your cover story is that you're investigating the Corulag representative in the Corellian Parliament. It's unlikely the Trandoshan Grand Militia will believe this story; do not leave yourself exposed to any risks, Zukassa," Skywalker's use of Roan's second name stressed the importance of his instructions. Roan suddenly realised that there was something more to his mission, something that the Council wasn't telling him. He decided against asking; if Ben Skywalker deemed that he didn't need to know, then he didn't need to know. Roan's respect for the man was so great that he would run through brick walls for him without question.

"Of course, Master," Roan bowed respectfully to ever master in turn, then swivelled and walked quickly out.

"And fix your nose!" Allana's disdainful cry followed him down the corridor. Roan allowed himself a half-smile and shook his head.

The Council Chamber doors slid shut with a quiet hiss. Allana leaned back in her chair, absent mindedly playing with a strand of hair. Ben Skywalker sat hunched forward, his eyes closed, his brow furrowed. His jaw twitched ever so slightly as he delved deeper into the Force than anyone else in the Jedi Order could.

"Should we have told him about the darkness Nabierre's Master felt when he reached out to her?" asked Corran Horn, breaking the thick, eerie silence that had started to linger over the Council. Ben Skywalker opened his eyes, exhaled slowly, and straightened up.

"No," he said, "Whatever he felt in his Padawan, the Force is telling me that Zukassa doesn't need to know. It's telling me that it's essential he doesn't know. It's too much of a coincidence that the Master felt the darkness and anger in his Padawan, and was then shot a few minutes later."

"I know," Tahiri agreed softly. "But how could an assassination be arranged in just a few minutes?"

"I don't know," Ben replied, "But I intend to find out."


	4. Boarding Party

Chapter Four

Boarding Party

Jerjerrod gulped and felt a shudder run down his spine as the frigate slowly, clumsily, turned, engines whining under the strain. He stared out of the viewports, at the rapidly moving star field ahead of him, shaking with fear. The Sith were coming!

The twelve X-wings broke off and headed left, confused because of their new retreat orders. There were only six bandits inbound, but they were being ordered to _retreat? _Why?

The pirate vessels, without the proper discipline to regularly check their sensors, knew nothing of the approaching fighters, and seized on the sudden opening as the X-wings retreated. The X-wings were flying in a broad, shallow arc, leaving their rears exposed. The few remaining E-wings darted forward, lacing space with laser blasts. One X-wing's shields stuttered and failed under a heavy barrage, and was then blown apart by seven laser beams. The remaining eleven X-wings tightened their turn, but by then the six Sith fighters had arrived.

The Sith fighters were shaped like horseshoes, with a central cockpit, beneath which were eight concussion missiles, and two laser cannons mounted above the cockpit. The ship was fast and nimble, with minimal shielding. The half dozen fighters had formed up into a line, preparing to charge down the enemy fighters.

The E-wings realised that there were approaching hostiles just seconds too late. The Sith fighters opened fire, swatting the Multirole spacecraft from the sky. The X-wings slowed, and then tightened their turn yet again, coming around to face the incoming Sith fighters.

The enemy fighters fired concussion missiles; space was instantly lit up by azure trails, and pinpricks of light that were trails and missiles.

Five X-wings exploded.

The other six opened fire, blasting the remaining concussion missiles from the sky.

The Sith fighters still continued forward, opening fire with their laser cannons. The X-wings slammed into evasive patterns, attempting to dodge the incoming needles of energy. But it was as if the Sith fighters knew where the X-wings would turn or speed up, slow down or spin. Two X-wings were blasted out of the sky, and the other four were badly hit. One spiralled away towards Korriban, bleeding hyperdrive fluid, whilst the other three turned, engines flaming, and started to limp back towards the _Rieekan, _which was accelerating away.

The Sith fighters fired another lightning-fast salvo of lasers, and the remaining X-wings were vaporised.

At the same time, the _Rieekan _was slowing down, its engine nozzles whining and crumpling as if an immense giant was squeezing them between his fists. Its shield flickered, tiny bolts of lightning slivering back and forward across the energy bubble in a chaotic dance.

The lead Sith fighter darted ahead, streams of crimson energy bolts cascading forward. The ship danced and slid from side to side, jinking and manoeuvring, dodging every single blast of retaliatory laser fire.

The man inside the Sith ship was a Twi'lek. He sat, hunched over his controls, his face and lekku head-tails obscured by a large black flight mask. Rage bubbled off him, positively tangible. He was calling on the dark side, floating in its reserves, submerging himself in its powers. He drifted slightly to port, and squeezed the trigger on his fighter's joystick. A short salvo blasted out from his ship's cannons, bursting through a tiny hole in the enemy shields. The lasers, guided by the Force, blasted through an already damaged hull covering and smashed into an engine coolant valve.

An explosion blasted out the aft section of the ship; great orange flames spouted into the vacuum of space, filling the vast, empty vista with billions of tiny pieces of melted durasteel. Bodies tumbled out, some burned horrifically, some flash-frozen by depressurisation, other bleeding heavily, and some still twisting futilely, clutching their throats and gagging as they froze and suffocated. The remains of the long range communications suite floated out into space.

The Sith smiled under his helmet, his pale tongue flicking out to lick his lips as he fed off the pain that emanated through the Force. Then he directed his fighter towards the frigate's hangar, and prepared to board.

Roan's small, inconspicuous shuttle entered Corulag's orbit and descended quickly into the atmosphere of the pleasant, blue and green planet. Roan sat at the controls, trying to fight off a slight sense of nervousness that played at his consciousness. Just as he passed through the mottled layer of white, wispy clouds, and came into full view of Corulag's capital city, a flare of anxiety shot up through the Force so powerful, so sharp and so raw that it was like a loud whine in his ear. He frowned and locked down his presence; hiding himself in the Force. Only someone powerful in the Force could've had their emotions pitched so clearly, and he didn't know exactly who the person was, so it was best to keep his presence secret for the time being.

Roan walked quickly and inconspicuously through the canyons beneath the towering granite buildings of Corulag, just another visitor to the city, heading to one of the seedy bars that dotted Corulag's Secondary Entertainment District, probably to spend the night in a house of ill repute and then get bottled after his little escapade. At least, that was what he was meant to look like. He was instead going to retrace the steps to every location the young Jedi Padawan who'd went missing had visited. . The buildings of the large capital city, though tall, were nothing compared to Coruscant's massive skyscrapers. At least sunlight filtered through the gaps in the skyline high above him.

Roan was fairly good at moving casually through crowds. He was wearing a grey jumpsuit, common enough among visiting traders. His lightsaber was concealed in one of the suit's deep pockets, easy to access but hidden.

The street was filled with bustling, chatting commuters, making their way to and from work. A few speeders flew overhead, their engines distant drones. One speeder, however, was getting closer, its engine getting louder. Roan looked up, his eyes scanning the sky above him, just in time to see a blue, wedge-shaped speeder diving down towards him at a steep angle. All around him, people were noticing, pointing at the rapidly accelerating vehicle. Someone screamed, and then chaos erupted. Someone jostled someone else, and, in what had been just seconds before a fairly ordinary, calm street of workers making their way to their livelihoods suddenly became a stampede of shrieking, bawling people trying desperately to get away from the speeder. People were being trampled on all sides, screaming in pain…

Roan's danger sense tingled, and he knew he speeder wasn't about to stop.

Roan threw all caution to the wind, and opened himself to the Force, letting its cool, calm energy flow into him filling his every being with a sense of purpose. He raised his arms, determined only to stop that speeder from ploughing into the tarmac ground he stood on and killing hundreds.

Instantly, the diving speeder slowed and then stopped. Roan concentrated a little, and slowly the speeder started to rise…

But his danger sense _still _didn't subside. In fact, it suddenly grew more acute. In fact, it grew insistent.

Roan barely had enough time to create a Force-wave, pushing the civilians all around him away to safety before an ugly, compact, repeating blaster cannon rose from its concealed cranny in the speeder's nose, and started spewing bolts of red plasma down on the street below.

Roan drew his sabre in a blindingly quick sweep, batting away the first attack and then hurling himself to the side as more blasts pounded down into the street, melting the ground beneath him. He broke into a sideways run, dodging and deflecting the continued barrage of laser bolts as whoever was firing at him corrected their aim.

The last vestiges of calm in the crowd disappeared, and surges of pain spiked through the Force as people were trampled by the chaotic stampede of fleeing civilians. Roan ignored it and allowed a tiny vestige of anger to creep into his temperament, and then leapt fifty feet in the air, somersaulting onto a passing speeder which was swerving and climbing wildly to escape from the firestorm of blaster bolts streaming down from high above.

Roan landed on the speeder, a large, boxy grey model, and was almost instantly thrown back off by the intense winds generated by moving so fast. But he secured his feet to the speeder with the Force for a few seconds, ignoring the sudden swerving as the speeder's driver, a tall Aqualish, desperately tried to shrug off his unwelcome passenger. But then Roan released his grip, leaping up again.

The wind rushed by, roaring in his ears as he landed atop another speeder. But he didn't have the time to secure himself; the small, lightweight speeder bucked under his weight, throwing him backwards and into empty space, two hundred feet above the ground.

Roan fell, a tangle of arms and legs. His lightsaber deactivated and fell from his hands, tumbling away as he desperately scrabbled for a non-existent handhold. He was still devoting some of his concentration to hold the hostile speeder in the air, and stopping it from plunging into the crowd below, so it took him dangerously long to start to control his fall.

His fall slowed marginally, but not enough. Roan cursed and then screamed as another speeder clipped his back as it whipped past. His concentration evaporated as white-hot streaks of agony shot up and down his back, turning his semi-controlled fall into a frenzied tumble. All around him, other speeders were crashing and colliding with each other, trying to dodge the laser bolts, and the Force was filled with death as twisted, burning remains of airspeeders crashed into the street, massacring civilians, whilst other, intact speeders swerved into buildings, exploding inside and shaking the granite structures to their foundations, as well as sending hundreds of chunks of broken stone into tumbling plummets onto the street, killing yetn more civilians.

Roan gritted his teeth against the pain and again summoned the Force, only using not his calmness of selflessness as the conductor for the Force's powerful energies, but his anger and pain. He created a cushion of Force-energy between himself and the ground, and his fall abruptly slowed to a gentle descent. He landed gently, on his feet, to stunned stares from the suddenly silent and immobile crowd around him.

But he couldn't afford to stand idle. Already the speeder, free from Roan's Force-grip, was turning its dive into a shallow, but fast, climb. It flew upwards and away until it was no more than a distant pinprick in the sky, then turned around and nosed over into a steep, accelerating dive; a strafing run. Laser bolts spat from the blaster cannon mounted in its nose, and Roan was thrown backwards from the hard, hot shockwave caused by a blaster bolt landing just metres away from where he'd landed. He reached into the Force, searching for his lightsaber, and sensed it about thirty metres down the street. He could just distantly see a scruffy looking man standing with it in his grubby hands, looking over it to see if it was worth anything. Roan smiled a little and ignited the sabre remotely. The stunned man dropped the weapon in fright, leaping away from the scorching blade as the handgrip jerked into Roan's outstretched hand.

The brief period of sheer, stunned silence that had descended over the crowd ended. The chaos resumed, with mountains of people desperately trying to squeeze down alleys and enter buildings as a hailstorm of lasers filled the centre of the street. Roan stood his ground, parrying every bolt that came his way as the speeder neared its quarry, its strafing run growing ever faster.

When the speeder was just a kilometre away, and plunging down into the street at twice the speed of sound, Roan used the Force to flick the speeder's nose skyward.

The speeder continued forward in its suicidal plunge, flipping nose over tail, until a Force-push tossed it backwards and into the air. It spun away, tumbling, its pilot's anger and distress radiating throughout the Force…

And then Roan realised that whoever was flying the speeder was Force-sensitive. The sheer, raw fear pouring off the pilot was as clear as crystal, even though the speeder was almost ten kilometres away, and such powerful emotion-projection pointed towards the fact that the speeder pilot was a Force-sensitive.

A Dark Jedi? Possibly. A mercenary with untrained but powerful Force abilities? Probably. Roan reached into the Force again to get a feel of the pilot, but a second later a tremendous roar reached his ears, and a massive fireball became visible in the distance. The pilot's presence disappeared instantly, suggesting either death, or that the pilot had hid his presence. Roan, naturally suspicious, opted for the latter option.

Roan suddenly became aware of the hundreds of terrified civilian eyes on him, and his still ignited lightsaber. He knew what flimsy cover he'd had to start with was gone. He hadn't even been on the planet for twenty minutes and he was standing in a street filled with crashed speeders, dead and maimed civilians, as well as hundreds of witnesses who would blame the Jedi's presence as the cause of the attack.

Roan shuddered as more pain rolled through the Force, and shut down his lightsaber. He moved quickly over to the biggest concentration of wounded people, prompting the civilians nearest them to move quickly away, casting suspicious glances over at the Jedi as he bent down and started pouring the healing energies of the Light Side into the wounded people. Several of the most seriously wounded had been convulsing and bleeding heavily, but they eventually fell still and their bleeding subsided as Roan put them into healing trances. He moved around the square, doing the same to everyone who was wounded, and then set off at a Force-aided run towards the crash site, his lightsaber still in his hand.

Roan's skin had nettled uncomfortably from over-using the Force when he arrived, fifteen minutes later, at the crash site. The air speeder had crashed just outside the city, and lay, smouldering, in the side of a small grassy hill, that was covered sparsely by tall evergreen trees. Roan knew straight away that the pilot of the speeder hadn't died in the crash; there was no hint of the bitter aftertaste left by death in the Force, only a hint of anger and disappointment.

Roan picked his way towards the smouldering wreck of the speeder, stepping over lumps and mounds of rubble and wreckage. He reached the vessel, and noted that the driver-side door had been blasted off by what appeared to be blaster shots; the door mechanism was pocked with deep, burning furrows. A discarded blaster carbine lay on the passenger seat, and the rest of the speeder's interior was hidden beneath the crumpled roof.

Roan stepped out of the vehicle and reached into the Force, but found no hint of any Force-user's presence on the planet; not his attacker's, or the apprentice he'd been sent to look for. Just the auras of twenty Corulag Security Officers racing towards the crash site in their patrol speeders. Roan decided that, for the sake of his mission, it would not do to be taken into custody. So he moved out of the speeder and set off at a run, back towards the city.

As he ran (and occasionally hid to escape passing Security patrol speeders) he pondered who had attacked him, and why. As far as he knew, he'd entered the planet with perfect cover, not arousing any suspicion at all. And he'd obviously been followed; how else would his attacker have found him in the many streets of Corulag's capital? And why would anyone have wanted to attack him in the first place? Nothing made sense, but Roan knew he would have to investigate the whole situation after he completed his primary objective.

The hangar crew aboard the _Riekan _screamed as the lead Sith fighter flew through the magnetic shield that held the hangar's atmosphere in place, and fired a concussion missile into a shuttle parked at the opposite end on the broad bay.

The missile streaked out and hit the shuttle square in the cockpit. The shuttle exploded grandly, filling half the hangar with a ferocious fireball that scorched the metal walls, ceiling and floor.

The explosion also lit the many puddles of fuel that lay on the floor of the hangar, filling the place with more, smaller explosions. The hangar maintenance crew raced back in forward, some screaming as their blue jumpsuits caught fire, others trying to dodge the streams of laser cannon fire that flew from the Sith fighter's cannons.

A squad of sixteen grey-armoured marines raced through the hangar's bulkhead and opened fire on the Sith ship, blasting away with their assault rifles. The Sith fighter shuddered buts its shields held and it swung around to open fire on its new assailants. Seven troops were evaporated by the first salvo, and another two were killed by a concussion missile's blast. The remaining seven troops sprinted off in different directions, heading for the cover provided by the destroyed shuttle's debris.

The Sith fighter darted forward on its repulsorlifts, flying over a few hangar techs who knelt, bent and stooped, clutching wounds in their torsos that belched blood and guts into horrible, rancid crimson pools. The pilot of the Sith ship smiled as the Force was filled with their pain; the pain that powered the dark side.

The remaining hangar security troops opened fire again, and crimson needles of light and plasma smashed against the Sith fighter with little effect, until two of the security troops managed to set up an E-Web Repeating Blaster Cannon mounting it on a tripod. It opened fire, causing heavy, powerful blasts to smash against the fighter's shields, depleting them until the fighter pilot waved his hand dismissively, causing the E-Web and its two operators to smash into the hangar's wall with a bone shattering crunch. The E-Web shattered and the two soldiers hung, suspended in a Force-grip, their bodies sagging because of broken and cracked bones. The Sith pilot grinned, revealing gleaming, sharp teeth, and tightened the fist he held out, causing the hanging soldiers to twitch and convulse as they were crushed by the Force. The other soldiers broke off their firing, and turned to stare, amazed and repulsed, as their comrades were crushed into tiny chunks of squashed plastoid armour and flesh.

The Sith pilot took the momentary distraction to swivel his craft around to face the hangar exit, target the hangar's magnetic shield generator, and fire.

The shield generator exploded, and the blue haze that had once filled the hangar bay's entrance disappeared. Instantly the remaining soldiers were plucked up and pulled into the air by the escaping atmosphere, their eyes bulging and bursting as explosive decompression settled in and they were sucked into deep, cold space. Other pieces of wreckage and the bodies of the dead hangar techs and soldiers were also jerked out into space, followed by the lumbering mass of the wrecked shuttle. A second later the blast shield, implemented to save the crew by slamming shut should the magnetic shield fail, engaged. The large metal door swung shut with a clang, and the atmosphere restored itself.

The Sith fighter settled onto its landing struts, and its canopy opened with a hiss. A blur in dark robes leapt straight up, flipping in mid-air and landing twenty metres in front of the fighter, an un-ignited lightsaber hilt in its hands.

The blur was in fact a male Twi'lek, with long lekku head-tails, pale skin, a pronounced cranium, and red eyes that surveyed the devastation with amusement.

The sound of running, booted feet echoed from the hangar's bulkhead, and the Twi'lek turned to face twenty Galactic Alliance Army soldiers racing into the hangar, raising their BlasTech A700 assault rifles and shouting commands to the Twi'lek, ordering him to surrender.

The Twi'lek obliged them by smiling revealing his needle teeth, and igniting his lightsaber, bathing the area around him in crimson light.

The soldiers opened fire straight away, but the Sith wasn't where he'd been standing a second before.

He was leaping forward, somersaulting in mid-air, before coming to land in front of the squad's commander, a young Lieutenant. The Sith's lightsaber flashed brightly, and the hangar was filled with the stench of burned flesh as the lieutenant's legs and arms, severed at the knees and elbows, fell to the deck, followed by the Lieutenant's head.

The soldiers corrected their aiming, firing at the Sith once more. The Twi'lek raised a long-fingered, pale hand, its dirty, grubby talons crackling with dark energy. A second later, bolts of twisting and crackling blue Force-lightning surged forward, hitting ten of the nearest troopers and hurling their convulsing forms backwards, to land perhaps twenty metres away. Their flesh smoked and steamed as life departed their bodies. The remaining troopers fell back, two of them lobbing thermal detonators at the Sith.

The Sith gestured calmly, and the thermal detonators reversed direction and exploded, engulfing seven troops in a brilliant flash of crimson energy.

The Sith started forward again, raising his blade to parry a blaster bolt sent in his direction back at its firer, who fell, smoke rising from the hole where his heart had once been.

The Sith reached the last soldiers, who was backed against the hangar wall, clutching his jammed blaster in a futile attempt to fire. The Sith closed his fist, and the blaster crumpled into a ball of twisted black durasteel. He then summoned a thermal detonator of the soldier's belt. The Sith snatched the silver sphere out of the air, and kicked the soldier with the power of the Force. The soldier slumped, his pelvis shattered, his mouth open in a scream. The Sith promptly stopped the scream by activating the thermal detonator and popping it in the soldier's mouth.

The Twi'lek backflipped away as the grenade exploded, evaporating the soldier's body and much of the hangar wall behind it. He then smiled; with every person he killed, more power flooded into his veins.

It was… Intoxicating.

Ten minutes later, the Twi'lek stepped onto the frigate's bridge. The nine bridge security guards stepped forward, but a salvo of Force-lightning tossed them, unconscious into a corner.

The captain of the ship, Jerjerrod, stood, pale faced but still, in front of his command console. The Twi'lek strode towards Jerjerrod, using the Force to throw aside any crewmember who bravely but foolishly tried to stop the Sith from reaching Jerjerrod.

"Captain," The Twi'lek inclined his head, and his head-tail twitched with delight and enjoyment at his mock courtesy, "A pleasure to meet you."

"I wish I could say likewise, but I cannot," The captain replied; to his credit, his voice did not waver or crack.

"These past few minutes have been a shame," The Twi'lek sighed theatrically, "The Sith do not attack unless threatened," The captain shivered, his worst fears confirmed; the Sith had returned, and were aboard his vessel, "But when we do attack, we attack ferociously."

"The Sith do not attack unless _threatened_?" echoed a voice from behind the Twi'lek, "Tell that to the historians!"

The Twi'lek turned and waved a hand, and the officer who'd been speaking suddenly clutched his throat, unable to speak or draw breath.

"Perhaps I was unclear," The Twi'lek said with a grin, "We also attack those who ally with the few who threaten the Sith."

"So, basically everyone in the galaxy?" Jerjerrod said, raising an eyebrow.

"At times in our history, yes. But, in this day and age, it is only the Galactic Alliance military personnel, and the Jedi Order. Although we would not have attacked even you had you not entered Korriban's orbit. We've been in hiding for the past eighty-odd years, simply practicing our traditions in peace, whilst the Jedi wreak havoc on the galaxy with war after war after war."

A few members of the crew nodded slightly; many believed that the Jedi were at the root of every war. The Clone Wars, the Galactic Civil War, the Yuuzhan Vong War, the Dark Nest Crisis, and the Corellian Insurrection.

But Jerjerrod did not agree with those people, "Jacen Solo was a Sith during the time of you supposed peace. He almost created a new Empire."

The Twi'lek shook his head, as if expecting that argument, "He was not a True Sith. He was trained by Lumiya, who was never part of our order. She was trained by Darth Vader and Emperor Palpatine, who were not members of the New Sith Order that my masters have created."

"Your masters? There are more of you?" Jerjerrod sounded surprised, and his Force aura radiated terror.

"Approximately seven hundred."

Jerjerrod's mouth worked futilely, but no words came out.

The Twi'lek took advantage of the situation to fully introduce himself, "I am Darth Correbra. I claim this ship in the name of the Sith. And your punishment for your unprovoked intrusion into Korriban space is death."

Jerjerrod simply stared, stunned, as Correbra's lightning struck him in the chest and threw his suddenly lifeless body across the bridge…


End file.
